


Numbers

by Effybean



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anorexia, Anxiety, Bulimia, Depression, ED-NOS, Eating Disorders, I am pointless, I just needed to write, I'll turn this into a fic when I'm not a wreck, Insomnia, My life is a fucking mess, Why do I even exist, just ignore me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effybean/pseuds/Effybean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Literally stream of consciousness that I plan on turning into a fic later. Excuse me, I'm having a terrible time and just needed to vent it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if you're reading this.

You never know when it's going to hit you. That's the worst part. One minute you're fine. One minute you're fucking Paula Deen, what with all the butter you're using. Then suddenly one word, one sentence, one image in your stupidly fucked up brain, and you're a panicked mess. The numbers on the scale shouldn't matter and they apparently don't, in this moment, because your scale's battery is dead and you can't go out and get new ones because you can hardly breathe, but the numbers do matter and all of a sudden the triggers are all hitting and once and you want to scream, or cry, or hurt yourself, but you can't. You've come too far, everyone expects more of you. 

You expect more of you. 

You have an arsenal of diet pills at your ready. You smoke like a chimney and drink to forget. You drink diet coke and coffee and crunch on ice. You print out diet plans that you claim you're going to follow to be healthy. You fight and fight and fight and fight this stupid fucking disorder. You actively argue with a voice in your mind telling you you're too fat, too much, too worthless, too pathetic. You stop feeling the way you used to, you walk through life half numb and half broken. You're too old for this. 

Then it hits you and you're left feeling helpless. It feels like someone has you in a steel cage, slowly grinding a gear that presses into your lungs and makes you unable to even speak. You want to fight. You try to fight. You expend more energy than most people do in a hardcore workout just to force yourself to keep going. To get out of bed. Go to work, pretend you're maybe okay normal ish. Berate yourself, because everyone has problems and everyone feels bad or anxious or depressed and you have no right to let it get in the way of anything. 

No one can know how badly you wish you could just disappear. No one can know that that's all you've wanted all along. No one can know that you aren't happy, and you're not content. You say you are, because what else can you do? You can either admit you aren't and let people assume it's because you don't go to parties or brunch or get your hair done, because you're single and obviously that's the issue. Or you can tell the truth, which is that you aren't and it's because you're fat and fucking HUNGRY and have no energy and wish you could, for once, have a normal life experience. You didn't have a normal school experience. You didn't have a normal first kiss. You didn't lose your virginity in a healthy or normal way. You didn't have a normal college experience. 

You're too fucked up for it to get any better. Deep down, you know that. You know you're a lost cause and you will most likely die in your bed from a heart attack after taking too many diet pills after throwing up too many times after running too many miles. 

Maybe that's why you just don't care. If you didn't believe you were a lost cause, you would trie harder. But when everyone is judging the loans and the debt, the lack of romantic relationships, the lack of a social life, why fucking bother? Why does it even matter? 

You don't even have a good excuse for sticking around. No kids, no husband or wife, no pets, very little familial interaction. 

Have you been planning this all along subconsciously? Disappearing slowly from everyone's radar, so you could let go? 

This is terrifying.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if you know me.


End file.
